


Monsters and Angels

by fowl68



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Canon Backstory, Concentration Camps, Cooking, F/M, Falling In Love, Implied Sexual Content, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4213776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fowl68/pseuds/fowl68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anna is killed by an angel and avenged by a man. She loves them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monsters and Angels

Anna is rescued by both a man and an angel. She learns to love them both.

They aren’t the same, despite having the same face.

Kratos the man is the one who has a shy smile, the one who cheats at cards—and Anna absolutely catches him. He’s terrible at playing innocent—and the one who stays just outside of arm’s reach when he tries to wake her from the nightmares, as though she can actually hurt him. _(There was no chance in hell that she could and she knew it. Even if she wanted to hurt him, she was too slow, too weak, still recovering from over a decade of the ranch)_ Kratos the man is the steady anchor when she finally does wake up, panicked and wild, the one who will hold her tight until she gets herself back under control, the one who will stroke what little is left of her hair and let her fall asleep on him.

Kratos the angel is the one who executes the guards that try to stop them. And it is an execution, silent and swift. He is the one who wipes his blade clean on the clothing of his victims. He is the one who keeps his distance from her, who has a twist of his lips that isn’t a smile, isn’t a smirk. The angel doesn’t sleep; he keeps watch with his sword in his lap. He’s the one that makes Anna wary for a long time _(Because he was one of the ones responsible for locking her up, for the tortures inflicted upon her and thousands of other people)_ , he is the one that Anna knows is a traitor, but she can’t tell—for the longest time—if he is going to betray her or if he’s already done with his betrayal to Cruxis.

* * *

 

The first time Kratos kisses her, it’s hesitant and in her shock, it takes her a moment to respond. In that moment, she can see the man retreating into the angel, a defense mechanism.

Anna doesn’t let that happen.

She tugs him back down—because Kratos can be annoyingly tall when he wants to use his height to his advantage—and doesn’t let him back up until they’re both breathless.

* * *

 

It takes a long time for Kratos the man to get used to physical contact, even casual ones. _(And it took her a while to get used to it too. She’d been ten years old when she got shoved into the ranch and she didn’t have any experience in things like this)_ Anna leans against him, her head at the perfect height to use his shoulder as a pillow. She plays with his hands as they walk, learning the callouses along his palms, feeling the ridges of his knuckles. The man returns the favor usually at night, when they’re sitting. He turns her hands over, will press his thumb into the center and trace the bones along the back of her hand.

They get comfortable with each other though. Kratos will sling his arm around her shoulders or hook it around her hips. Kratos the man snuffles in his sleep and his favorite place to kiss is right beneath her ear. He nuzzles her skin and chuckles low and deep when she squirms and arches away, gasping because “That tickles, Kratos!” and “Will you _get on with it_?” The angel lurks in him though, in his ancient eyes—far too old for his face—and his wording. He never says ‘worlds’; the only time he has is when he had been explaining what the truth to her, the truth of what he, Yuan and Mithos had done. The angel lingers in the way he looks at her sometimes, distant and untouchable; he’s there in the tightness at the corners of his lips some mornings, at the marks on her skin, at the light bruises on her hips. The man can forget his strength, but the angel won’t let him forget the consequences, no matter how much Anna insists that she’s _fine_.

The angel doesn’t ever get used to physical contact. He seems almost afraid to touch her and when he does, the touches are shorter, less indulgent. Anna has mastered the art of cutting right through that fear _(Which was perfectly valid. Kratos could snap her in two if he was so inclined, could dislocate and break bones with a press of his hand)_ and unraveling his thoughts, bringing him to the now. His touches are firm, but light, careful not to do any damage. He doesn’t stay connected to her, doesn’t wrap his arm around her waist, doesn’t take her hand, tries not to initiate contact.

The angel is the one that falls apart under her hands though, shuddering and shattering apart. He doesn’t sleep beside her because he doesn’t sleep. But Anna has woken on more than one occasion to see Kratos sitting on the edge of the bed or beside her bedroll, eyes dark like the space between the stars. The angel is protective and fierce, rooted in ice. He is the one who she knows for a fact listens to her heartbeat with those enhanced senses of his, who needs that steady rhythm as a touchstone.

The angel is the one who presses one of his knives into her hands and proceeds to teach her to use it _. (Swords weren’t her style, Kratos knew. Anna was a survivor; he’d seen her kill before, a screwdriver that she’d slipped from one of the guards her weapon. She’d fought back as much as she could and Kratos remembered having to stop and stare at the body at her feet as she yanked the screwdriver out because Anna refused to let her own rescue fail)_ He is the one who teaches her how to twist the wrists and shoulders in just the right way, the one who will run her ragged with training if only it will teach her how to win, not just survive.

The man kisses her sweet; he can be a bit of a tease and she can feel him smile against her lips. The angel kisses her hard and desperate, like she’s going to disappear.

* * *

 

Learning to love the man is easy. Kratos has a dry and wicked sense of humor and once he gets over the initial shyness—for that’s what he is. Awkward and uncomfortable, hiding behind politeness and military posture—he’s physically affectionate in an almost touch-starved way.

Anna has no problems with that.

Learning to love the angel is harder. Kratos retreats into himself, goes into ancient memories and old promises and he is so very aware of what he thinks he is. _(A monster, he’d said only a few months into their acquaintance. Anna agreed with him then; not anymore)_ But he is careful with her and so very protective. Like she is something precious. Anna gets over her problems with the angel, with her initial wariness because this person is responsible for so much sadness and suffering. But she sees changes, sees how he is struggling to find ways to fix what he’s done, to atone. And maybe he can’t, maybe there is no atonement for the things he’s done. But he’s trying and hoping for something better and she sees his kindness when he tells her the truth of Cruxis, of their genocidal actions. Men without kindness don’t sound like that when they talk about atrocities they’ve committed. Anna knows. She’s spent years imprisoned by such a man.

* * *

 

Anna is aware that she loves Kratos—both angel and man—for a long time. The first time that she becomes aware of being in love with the man is much later. It’s the first year anniversary of her freedom, of Kratos going into the Asgard Ranch and helping her sneak out, screwdriver held tight in her sweaty palm and one hand on his sword. Anna mentions it, offhand, like she doesn’t wake up every morning, counting it because one more day of freedom might not seem like much, but it can add up to a lot.

Kratos is the one who suggests celebrating. They’re in the Izlood area at the time and they buy a wine that honestly tastes pretty foul _(Anna would never forget the way Kratos’ face scrunched and twisted at that first sip. Enhanced senses were not always a good thing)_. They sat on one of the docks, legs dangling, and Kratos’ eyes are on the stars, as they often are. Anna asks him if he knows any constellations. She had heard of them, back in Luin, but she doesn’t remember any, isn’t sure she ever knew them. He tells her some of the stories—Kratos is good at that, telling stories—and at some point, Anna comments on one of them.

Kratos will deny forever that wine snorted from his nose, but Anna had laughed right along with him. She likes the sound of his laughter, even as he’s trying to recover from choking on that horrible wine and she wants to hear it more often, wants to feel it against her skin every day.

The moment she finds out that she’s in love with the angel is the morning—super early morning, pre-dawn—that he jerks from beneath her, dislodging her. Anna startles awake, survival instincts buzzing because Kratos has the super senses; had he heard Desian boots on the ground? The wings of Cruxis angels coming after them?

“What do you hear?” Anna asks, sitting up, going for the knife that she keeps in her boot.

“A heartbeat.” Anna frowns at him—it can just be a passerby, however coincidental that might be—but then she notices that Noishe, the ever-vigilant watchdog, is awake, but he hasn’t gotten to his feet. He’s actually looking at Kratos and there’s an annoyance and a question in those too-intelligent eyes.

The angel goes still when he’s stretching his senses as far as they’ll go. Anna waits, unsure of the threat. Finally, he whirls around and he’s looking at her.

“What?” Anna asks because his hand eased from the sword hilt. She follows his gaze and they’re on her abdomen.

“You’re pregnant,” he tells her.

A jolt of fear goes through Anna because she can’t be a mother. She’s not cut out for it. Hell, she barely remembers her own mother. They’re on the run from the organization who split apart the world; how are they supposed to raise a child?

The fear turns into panic and Kratos must hear the change in her own heartbeat, a rapid thumping that she can feel, the pulse pounding in her head. Kratos takes the knife from her loose grip, setting it on the bedside table. He traces fingertips over her cheekbones, brushing her short hair from her face. _(Feather-light touches, hardly there. Her angel—for that’s what Kratos was—was always so very gentle with her)_ And the words spill from her mouth, all the reasons and the fears. She clutches at one of his hands, leaning into the one that’s still barely touching her jaw. Any touches that the angel initiates aren’t solid; they are an offering of more without expectations. Anna is breathless by the end of it.

Kratos rubs a thumb over her knuckles. “Are you done?” he asks.

She nods, noticing that his breathing is deeper than usual. Hell, he’s breathing. The angel doesn’t breathe or sleep; he’s doing it for her, so she can have something to reference, something to match her breathing to. And it’s working.

“You don’t have to keep the child,” he says quietly. “Not if you don’t want to.”

That statement relieves pressure from her chest that she hadn’t known was there. “But…what about you? You’re the father. You get a say.”

He shakes his head and he doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “Not on this. If you don’t want to be a mother, you don’t have to be. I’m just reminding you: you won’t be alone in this. I’m not leaving you. I will help you.”

It’s a comforting thought; Kratos—man or angel—is a steady anchor. She would have his help with the baby. He would be there at the birth, he would be there for everything after. She’s not alone. “…We’re still on the run. It’s no way to raise a child.”

“We’ll figure something out,” he promises and she believes him. The angel doesn’t break his promises. “If you want to do this, we’ll find a way to stop running. I just ask that you think about it.”

_(It was a terrifying thought, being a mother, having a child’s life, its future, in her—their—hands. It took her a few days to really think about it. At some point in those days, the thought crossed her mind that she would be allowing an angel to help raise her child. There was something in her gut, in the places where her scars from the ranch burned, that was instinctively repulsed by the idea. But that repulsion was from a place of fear, not from the place where she kept her memories of Kratos. Her Kratos place was warm against her ribs and she had no doubts that the man would be a good father. The angel could be too, if he allowed himself to try)_

It is one of the nights they stay in an inn. Hima is getting cold this time of year and Anna wraps a blanket around her shoulders as she slips out of the room. Noishe is curled in the corner of the small room and his eyes open enough to register that there is no threat, that she’s fine, before he lies his head back down on his paws. Kratos the angel is where she expects him to be, seated comfortably on the banister that frames the inn’s front porch. She tosses one end of the blanket over his shoulders—unnecessary, since he doesn’t feel cold like she does. To him, it’s a distant concept—as she steps right beside him, close enough for her stomach to brush his hips. _(He won’t initiate touch, but little things like that were signals, allowances)_ His hand came up, palm barely above her hip, thumb rubbing small circles into her hipbone, nails scratching ever so lightly at her skin.

“Where’s your coat?” he asks quietly. “It’s cold out here.”

“That’s what this,” Anna shrugs her blanket-covered shoulders demonstratively. “And you are for. Because, y’know, I do kind of miss you warming my bed.”

The weight of his hand on her hip becomes more solid, firmer. Little permissions that the angel needs. “I thought you could use the space,” he tells her.

“You weren’t wrong. But I’ve done my thinking.” She runs her fingers through her hair, combing it back out of his face. It’s pointless, she knows. Kratos’ hair defies any attempts to tame it.

“And?”

“And I want to keep the baby.” After four thousand years, there aren’t many things left to surprise an angel. That’s why, when those red-brown eyes go wide and his breath whooshes out of him, Anna feels a little bit of pride well up. Yeah, she can do this to him, with just a few words.

“Really.” The word is somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Yeah.” Anna doesn’t have to bend far to brush a kiss against his temple. “I think you’d make a pretty good father.”

When she kisses him properly, the angel is still breathless, still in shock and she chuckles against his lips. The look on his face a moment later, when that intelligent brain actually processes the thought, is worth it, worth all of what she’s been through.

* * *

 

Anna asks him, the next morning, why he had been so completely shocked that she would think that he would be a good father.

He’s still, beside her, still like only someone who doesn’t need to breathe can be. He tries not to do that. After a few, long, moments, he tells her about his own father. About the military general and his coward son, about the too-quiet house _._

_(Kratos’ father died over four thousand years ago. That didn’t stop Anna from wanting to bring him back so she could kill him again, slower this time. Or maybe death was too good for him)_

“I didn’t have an example of what a father should be,” he finishes and he’s not quite looking at her. His gaze is focuses on the space between her eyes rather than actually meeting her eyes. It’s a good trick, but Anna knows him too well to be fooled.

“You won’t become him,” she says.

“You don’t know that.”

Anna props herself up on one elbow. “Yeah, I do. Kratos, you never became him. You were never his pet soldier, you weren’t the cruel person he wanted you to be. You still aren’t. And you won’t do any of the things he did to you to our kid.”

“I’m worse than what he wanted me to be.”

Her jaw clenches. “You’re not a monster. You may believe it, but you’re wrong. I’ve seen the real monsters, Kratos; I was imprisoned by them. They don’t feel remorse for what they do. You’re trying to atone for what you did. That makes you different.”

“And you think an angel is to be trusted around a child?”

“You haven’t hurt me. I don’t think you ever will. So why would I ever believe that you’d hurt our child?”

_(Kratos would never understand how he earned her trust, her faith. It didn’t make sense. He told her that once and she laughed. “Call it one of my charms,” she said)_

* * *

 

The man doesn’t sing. He hums; Anna hears him, sometimes. Usually in the kitchen, in the morning. Kratos is a morning person, she’s found, assuming that they have the time to develop an actual schedule and not be on the run. He usually hums to Lloyd, who has a ferocious amount of energy and can’t quite do more than wobble on his chubby legs for a few moments before plopping back down.

Anna comes in—on more than one occasion—to find Lloyd propped on Kratos’ hip as he makes breakfast. His hums are low and rumbling, the melodies often slow. She doesn’t know if they’re actually supposed to be lullabies, but they work as them. Lloyd’s fallen asleep at breakfast time more than once because of it.

That’s another thing—the man can _cook_. Nothing fancy, but Anna thinks anyone would be hard pressed to find someone who knows how to season meat like that.

She greets her boys good morning, a kiss for each of them and steals a few peppers from the pile that’s going into one of the omelets before taking Lloyd from Kratos, bouncing him a little and flicking a little at his thick, feathery hair. He has his father’s hair, absolutely unruly. And his eyes, but Anna’s happy about that part; she likes Kratos’ eyes, thinks that the red tint to them is amazing. Kratos thinks she’s a little crazy for that—he’s told her so, in his own way—but she sticks by it.

The angel doesn’t eat. Not on his own. He’s not hungry, doesn’t get hungry, he says. Anna calls bullshit and will shove a sandwich in his hands. Lloyd doesn’t know what the difference is, but he can recognize it and Kratos has a very hard time saying ‘no’ to him. He always accepts the tiny pieces of meat that have been cut up for Lloyd or the cups of juice held out.

The angel will sing. Anna has learned the songs that Kratos hums in the mornings; she uses them to help put Lloyd to sleep because the kid has way too much energy. She’s taken to making up words to go along with the melodies. Kratos hears her—of course he does. He would hear her halfway across the continent—and after a few months, after she’s tucked Lloyd in and Noishe has settled around the toddler as he always does, Kratos asks her about it.

“What am I supposed to sing?” she asks. “It’s not like I know the words to what you hum.” Anna doesn’t remember her parents, not really. Sometimes, their faces. “And I don’t remember any lullabies.” Because she knows about his childhood, she feels justified in asking, “How do you know them?”

He goes still then, eyes dropping. “…I learned them from Martel. She would sing them to Mithos. Even to some of her patients, on the bad nights.” _(He never described what, exactly, the bad nights were. Anna didn’t need to know specifics. She could guess. There had been bad nights in the ranch too. Nights where nightmares ran rampant and screams echoed down the prison corridors)_

Anna never asks and Kratos doesn’t tell, but she knows that he loved Martel and Mithos. Still loves them, even after all that Mithos has done. “Do I get to learn the words?”

It shouldn’t surprise her that Kratos has a wonderful singing voice; his speaking voice is already pleasant. His singing is deep and a little hesitant at first, but it strengthens. Anna doesn’t quite recognize all the words—language changes in four thousand years—but she recognizes some of it. She thanks him when he’s done, kissing him gently because she had accepted a while ago that there are things about Kratos that he doesn’t share and she had honestly thought that this would be one of those things.

_(Anna was right, though. About how very careful Kratos was with Lloyd. The man will toss Lloyd up in the air—she never fears that he won’t catch him—and let Lloyd use him as a jungle gym. The angel hovered near Lloyd as he learned to walk and he’d been so very hesitant to even extend Lloyd his finger to grasp, let alone hold him. It took Anna some time to convince him that no, he wasn’t going to break. Babies were a little sturdier than that. Not a whole lot, but still)_

* * *

 

The man is the one who refuses to kill her.

He stares at her, at the monster she’s become—and yes, Kratos, this is what a monster looks like—and for the first time, she sees him falter, sees him hesitate with a sword in his hands. He looks broken, for a moment, absolutely shattered.

The angel is the one who takes control, who shoves the man back down and those pretty eyes of his go cold. It’s not the same kind of cold, not the kind Anna remembers from those first weeks of acquaintance. It’s more fragile, kinder and she thanks him when his sword goes through her.

Anna is killed by an angel and avenged by a man. She loves them both.


End file.
